The cardinal's musketeer

MORE than an hour had passed in this tedious watch; the stillness without was scarcely greater than the stillness within. Mademoiselle and her woman remained in their quarters, and the soldiers waited indifferently for the outcome. From his post by the front door, Péron again and again looked out at the grille and tried to search the darkness with his anxious eyes, but without result; he was becoming more and more convinced that Mademoiselle de Nançay had in some manner defeated the cardinal’s plans. But his labor was not to be as fruitless as he supposed, and Renée was, in one point, to meet with less success than usual. Just when the situation seemed least promising, Péron heard Choin coming on tiptoe toward him. The hall was lighted dimly by a rushlight sitting on the floor, and he could not see the face of the maître d’armes well enough to discern his expression. The Italian came close to him before speaking.

“There is some one in the garden,” he whispered; “I heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road, and now I hear the brush crackling by the wall on the east side.”

“Good!” ejaculated Péron, with relief; “I am tired of sitting, like a rat in a trap. How many horses were there?”

He asked this as they walked swiftly to the rear entrance.

“Only one,” replied Choin, “and there was a long pause after he stopped at the end of the wall.”

They had now reached the door, and Péron opened the grille softly and looked out. At first he could see nothing in the darkness, but after a moment he became accustomed to it and was able to discern the dark outlines of a man coming cautiously toward the door. Péron signed to Choin to be silent, and both waited in breathless suspense. After another pause, evidently spent in reconnoitering, the stranger advanced more carelessly. To the surprise of the watcher within, he made straight for the door and tapped softly twice and loudly once. It was undoubtedly a preconcerted signal, and Péron, by signs, told Choin to withdraw from sight when the door should be opened; then he answered with the password given him by the cardinal, which seemed to dispel the visitor’s doubts.

“Open,” he said in a low tone, “’tis I, Gaston; why do you keep me so long?”

Without replying, Péron flung the door open, standing well in the shadow behind it as he did so.

But his caution was unnecessary; the stranger pushed in, seemingly anxious to be within the house. In a moment the bolts slipped behind him and he was a prisoner, but he had no suspicion, as yet, of the trap into which he had fallen. He was a man of medium stature, closely muffled in a dark cloak, the collar turned up about his face and his plumed hat set low over his forehead. As he entered, Péron’s quick eye caught the gleam of golden spurs on the heels of his high leather boots. He carried his sheathed sword in his hand, as if he were prepared for any misadventure. He took no heed of the way the door was closed nor of Péron, and advanced to the middle of the hall before he observed Choin, who had posted himself with his back against the main entrance. The noise of his arrival had roused the soldiers in the room to the left, and two of them came to the door and thrust out their heads to stare at him. Something in the stillness of the house, in the strange faces of the men, made him stop short and wheel around to look at Péron; the light was too dim for him to see plainly, but he was disturbed. This was not the reception that he had looked for in this place.

“What is this?” he ejaculated in a high, peevish tone, a tone that Péron seemed to recognize. “Where is M. de Nançay?”

“He has not come,” replied Péron, promptly, “but Mademoiselle de Nançay is here.”

He spoke at random and by impulse, but he saw that his words had done much to remove the stranger’s suspicions.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “’tis strange to send only a girl—at such a time. Where is she?”

“This way, monsieur,” Péron replied, curious to see the result of this accident, and tempted, too, to confront mademoiselle with her friend.

Ninon opened the door in answer to his summons, and without a word the stranger thrust past her into the room, cloaked and bonneted as he was. Péron followed too quickly for Ninon to shut him out, for he had no mind to leave this new-comer to talk privately with Renée de Nançay. In spite of her woman’s angry glances, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, watching the other two. He was not prepared, however, for the sequel. When they entered, mademoiselle was sitting by the fire, with her back toward them, and she only glanced up carelessly, expecting Péron. At the sight of the stranger, however, she sprang to her feet, and as he dropped the edge of his cloak and uncovered his head, she recoiled with a cry of terror.

“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, “why did you come here? I made the signal to warn them away.”

“Mordieu!” he cried in a tone of consternation. “What is this? I was to come here alone, I have seen no one else; into what trap have I fallen?”

“They must have sent a messenger to you,” Renée said, recovering her composure; “you must have missed him on the road. Mère de Dieu!” she added with fresh trepidation, “and they will think you in Paris; and yonder,” she pointed at Péron, “is the cardinal’s musketeer!”

The stranger turned as she spoke, and, throwing his cloak partly over his face, made a spring for the door. Péron drew his sword, and as he did so, Renée shrieked aloud.

“Stop, in heaven’s name!” she cried; “do not touch him, M. de Calvisson, it is Monsieur!”

Péron dropped the point of his sword, but stood firm.

“You cannot pass, monsieur,” he said. He was doubtful of the truth of mademoiselle’s assertion, thinking she intended to deceive him; but at his words the stranger let fall his cloak.

There could be no longer any doubt of his identity; there was the full eye, the hooked nose, the full round chin of the Bourbons. The likeness that Gaston d’Orléans bore to the king and to the queen-mother could not be easily mistaken, even in the plain dress he wore as a disguise. Péron had seen him many times before and knew him well; he saluted gravely and stood irresolute; the cardinal’s orders had not mentioned a prince of the blood, indeed he had told M. de Nançay that the Duke of Orleans would make his terms with the king. Had Richelieu been deceived, or had he duped the marquis? These were perplexing questions, and they flashed in rapid succession through Péron’s mind, as he stood looking at the flushed and angry face of the prince. Orleans was not noted either for courage or fortitude in supreme moments. Finding himself fairly checkmated, he had but one thought, and that was for his own safety. He turned and began to upbraid mademoiselle.

“How came you here, girl?” he demanded peevishly. “Has that precious father of yours turned coward and deserted his friends?”

Renée’s eye flashed. “Monsieur,” she said haughtily, “my father is no traitor to his allies; he has never betrayed a man who perilled his life and honor for him!”

The thrust went home; the fate of the unhappy and noble Montmorency was not yet forgotten, and the prince gnawed his lip in silence. But mademoiselle was not done.

“My father is now a prisoner,” she said, “in the hands of that man who is alike pitiless and supreme, and I was sent here at the king’s orders to decoy your friends to this house. I tried to prevent it—I made the signal, and indeed I am sure that no one else will come; but monsignor has certainly made one successful cast of his net to-night;” and she smiled scornfully, as she looked at the handsome, vacillating face of Gaston d’Orléans.

“Pardieu!” he muttered, “I am lost. The king’s orders! Your father in the hands of the cardinal, and my mother in Brussels! I am lost! I am lost!” and he paced up and down the room, wringing his hands like one possessed. He who never decided anything was suddenly forced to face an exigency which demanded decision.

It was a strange scene: Péron stood like a statue by the door, his drawn sword in his hand, and near him Ninon was gazing wide-eyed at the prince as he paced to and fro. By the fire, Renée stood erect, her face pale but her eyes aglow with indignation, the most composed person present.

Presently Monsieur halted in front of Péron.

“Put up your sword,” he said pettishly. “I am a prince of France, and you dare not oppose me. I shall go out of this house as I came—alone!”

Péron had been revolving many thoughts in his mind during the brief time since the discovery of his prisoner’s identity, and he had to come to a decision.

“It is true that I might risk the king’s displeasure by opposing your highness,” he said quietly, “but consider for one moment the situation. I am not in supreme command in this house. There is here a capitaine de quartier. I heard his voice on the stairs a moment since, and the place is full of soldiers. If you step out into that hall—if you attempt to go away—they will seize you, and it will be a public matter in five minutes.”

“But, mon Dieu!” cried the prince, in a faint voice, “what can I do? My brother will never forgive me. The cardinal will ruin me! They will know I am here, if I stay! Where is the advantage?”

“If your highness will think a moment, you will see,” Péron answered more calmly, as he saw the other’s absolute impotence in the face of a crisis. “If you remain quiet, no one need know your identity but Mademoiselle de Nançay and myself.”

Gaston peered at him eagerly; his face had grown pinched and not unlike the king’s when Louis was suffering from one of his seasons of ill health.

“How can I trust you, man?” he moaned fretfully. “I can trust no one; every one betrays me and every one suspects me, even my own brother!”

“Because you betray every one,” was on Péron’s lip; but he restrained himself, though, looking beyond Monsieur’s cowering figure, he saw the contempt and hatred on mademoiselle’s proud young face.

“You may trust me, your highness,” Péron replied quietly. “I pledge my honor that no man shall know you if you will stay in the room across the hall until daybreak, and then ride with me to Paris.”

Monsieur’s face, already white, turned the color of ashes.

“To Paris!” he cried, collapsing into a chair. “To monsignor?”

“To monsignor, your highness,” said Péron, grimly. “My orders are absolute.”

The prince covered his face with his hands, and there was a moment of silence. In it Renée’s eyes met the young soldier’s with a sympathetic flash of contempt for the crouching heap in the chair. Monsieur’s thick curls fell disordered around his face, and his white hands trembled as he held them over his eyes. Suddenly he rallied and sat up, looking defiantly at Péron.

“You can prove nothing against me, sir musketeer,” he said. “I came here, it is true—but how do you know my errand?”

“It is true that I do not know it, your highness,” he replied gravely, “neither do the men without know you; there is your advantage.”

“Tush!” said Gaston, with rising courage, “’tis all a trap of Richelieu’s; a clear evidence of his persecution of me. My brother shall know it!”

He rose from his chair and felt in his pockets for a comb, which he found, and began to arrange his curls.

“Your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said peevishly. “I could not see for my disordered hair.” Then he turned to Péron. “Now, sir,” he added, “I will go to your prison until daybreak, but you shall all suffer for this!”

Péron laid his hand on the latch.

“I pray your highness to assume your disguise,” he said; “we must cross the hall, and it is now full of soldiers.”

The prince resumed his cloak and hat with some muttered imprecations, but he was careful to muffle his face before the door was opened. As Péron had said, the entry was full of troopers, but at a sign from him they all fell back and allowed the prince to cross the hall to a room on the other side, which his captor took care should be secure before he left him there to rest for the few hours that remained before daybreak.

Meanwhile Péron found enough to do to make his arrangements and keep his pledge to the Duke of Orleans. However, the others were tolerably satisfied with the ease with which they had secured the prisoner, and did not press the question of his identity, after their leader told them that he was not at liberty to reveal it. Whatever their suspicions were, they did not soar as high as the truth, and Péron felt confident that all would go well, if there was no attempt at a rescue by the other conspirators.

But all the while another matter troubled the mind of the young soldier. Monsieur was a dangerous prisoner. He had been in numerous plots against his brother and the cardinal, and in open rebellion before, and never yet had offended beyond the king’s forgiveness. What would be the result of carrying such a prize to Richelieu? It was a question which no man could answer. And Monsieur had all the spitefulness and ill temper of his mother. More than this, had the cardinal purposely spread his net for this royal fish, or had he believed one of d’Orléans’s numerous confessions? The last was clearly impossible; monsignor knew the prince too well. Manifestly, the declaration of Monsieur’s reconciliation had been made to entrap de Nançay; and now the point remained—would the capture of Gaston be welcomed, or would his captor suffer for it? Péron found it impossible to decide, and set about his duty with a heavy heart; it seemed that this fish might be large enough to break the meshes of his net or drag him into the deep sea.